Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

It seemed reasonable, since the airports were going to be empty very soon. “What did you tell him?” Patton asked, wondering how accurate Rucker’s senses were. It seemed awfully coincidental that she just happened to be on the phone with the man they were looking for.

“I just told him that some people were here with guns. He said that he was calling our security force.” Adrienne could sense Patton’s suspicion. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” she pleaded.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Phil said to both of them. “Call him back,” Phil said to the crying woman.

“What do I tell him?”

“Anything, it doesn’t matter, just get him on the phone.”

She looked confused, but it was a relatively easy task, so she moved closer to the desk. Phil had obligingly backed away. She picked up the phone with a shaky hand and dialed the number. Benedict reached over and hit the speaker button.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. “Damn it,” Patton said. “Tell us exactly what you told him.”

It was sad but necessary, and on the whole inevitable; but Rider liked his boss, and a part of him regretted that circumstances required him to shoot the man in the head. It had also been fairly messy, and he was glad that he had a different car to switch to.

He wondered how the Americans had discovered him, and he feared for the others. If they could find him after all the extra precautions he had taken, the plan was in real jeopardy. When he had first arrived in the United States three years ago, he’d never met with Avanti’s contact, choosing instead to create his own identity. It wasn’t difficult, especially in Los Angeles, and especially with a good deal of cash. He had paid well and within a month had seamlessly stepped into the persona of Joseph Rider. He had been a model citizen ever since, so how had they found him? He drove down the emergency lane with his lights and flashers on, soon-to-be-dead faces gaping at him from cars stuck in a hopeless traffic jam.

In some ways he was glad. They were forcing him to revert back to the original plan — at least partially. Even with an anonymous, unmarked vehicle, he had little chance of distributing enough of the complexed paper across the Los Angeles Basin before being caught; so he would adapt. The quarantine was still three hours away, and the grocery stores and malls were still packed; if he hurried he could hand-deliver the virus to hundreds and probably thousands of Americans who would then take the infection home and spread it further. It wouldn’t have the impact that they had original hoped, but combined with a strategic distribution of the viral-impregnated parchment, he would devastate Southern California. Professor Avanti estimated less than five grams would infect the entire Basin; the blue vial had more than fifty, and Rider was certain that he could distribute at least half.

He pulled into his driveway, and his neighbor gave him a half-hearted wave as she carried supplies into the house. A toddler, dressed in pink and adorned in bows, followed her in. He left the car running and quickly ran inside. Before the song on the radio had changed, he was backing out of his driveway for the last time, a small crash-proof case sitting next to him.

It had taken them only a few minutes to get a picture of Joseph Rider and pass it on to the LAPD and the military, which had taken over most of the city. To no one’s surprise, Rider and his boss never made it to the airport, and his boss didn’t answer his cell phone. Ten minutes later, the LAPD found his vehicle and his body. Several minutes later, the first of several police cars pulled up at the Rider residence, only to learn from his neighbor that he had just left, five, maybe ten, minutes ago. It took another twenty minutes for a hazmat team to arrive and enter the empty house, where they found nothing of use.

He has at least a thirty-minute head start , Phil calculated as he walked into the house in his own hazmat suit. He could feel Rider’s energy all around him; it lingered in his house like a familiar smell. Reisch had known this man, and known him reasonably well, but that didn’t help Phil establish a connection.

“Anything?” Patton asked. He was out of his element with this “psychic shit,” but he was trying to adjust.

“Nothing useful. I know he’s not here.”

“That much we’ve already established, Doctor,” Patton said sarcastically.

Phil looked back at the large detective, who was wearing his own isolation suit; only his was stretched far tighter. “These aren’t my rules, Patton. I know he’s close.”

“Can you tell how far away?”

“More than five miles.” Rucker played with a small lamp on his kitchen table and started to feel a vague sense of Rider’s thoughts, almost as if they had clung to the metal. He stripped off one of his gloves, and then the other. He unfastened the seals around his hood and removed that as well.

Patton had started to object, but then realized that Rucker had no need for protection. Phil fingered the lamp, and for a fleeting moment found him. It wasn’t the lamp; it was Rider himself, who had turned his thoughts back to his house, wondering if the police had arrived yet. It had happened so quickly, and it was so unexpected, that Phil didn’t react fast enough. “Damn, I almost had him,” he cursed. “He’s in an apartment or a house about eight miles that way.” Phil pointed at a spot just to the left of Rider’s refrigerator.

“Don’t move,” Patton ordered. Someone found a GPS monitor and calculated the vector.

A LAPD detective mapped it for them and then frowned. “If that’s where he’s at, he picked a damn good place to hide. There are about ten different apartment complexes in this area, as well as about a hundred low-income houses.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. He can track ’em,” Patton said, motioning to Phil. “Get us there before he moves again.”

* * *

It was supposed to be an ultra-fine powder, but instead, it was somewhat granular, like big grains of salt. Rider, aka Izhan Ahmed, started to grind the grains into smaller pieces. Time was running out. He had two full hours before all the Americans would go scurrying back to their little rabbit holes. Five minutes of grinding had managed to convert the grains of sand into something approaching a powder. It had also managed to infect him, and the warm Southern California breeze had managed to infect the other fifty residents of the Villas Del Mar Apartments with a purified form of the Hybrid virus.

He sprinkled some of the powder across the sheets of parchment and then soaked them for five minutes. They came out of the water looking like very thin linen, but ten minutes later, they looked like ordinary notebook paper. That made him happy. He checked his watch and wondered if the police had raided his house yet. It didn’t matter. They would find nothing that would lead them to him or give them any idea what he was planning next. He decided that he had another five minutes, so he went back to the mortar and pestle and began to grind up the remaining virus. When he had his fine dust, he stopped. The first blister had started to form on his cheek. It took less than ten minutes to finish his final task and leave.

* * *

It had taken them almost half an hour to travel the eight miles. The roads were packed with cars, and there were some physical realities that lights, sirens, and desperate need could not overcome. It had only taken Phil a minute to find the correct apartment complex.

“Stop! He’s already gone.” Phil yelled. “Don’t anyone get out. Keep your windows up, close your vents, and let’s get out of here. He’s infected the whole place.” The police lieutenant driving their car jerked back into traffic, and the trailing cars followed. The police captain had begun to radio instructions to their military escort to seal off the area.